The Wistful Incense
The shovel handle was slick with a cold that seeped through Elias Thorne’s leather gloves, biting into the meat of his palms as he drove the blade into the frozen earth of the Alpine slope, a motion that had repeated itself ten thousand times over three decades of quiet, solitary labor. He was fifty-four, a botanist of the old school who believed that if one listened closely enough to the root...
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